


we're but peons in a circuit built by time to last

by hikaie



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Absent Parents, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Crude Humor, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Sex, Sexual Situations, crude language, resbang 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-03 23:29:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2892086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikaie/pseuds/hikaie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maka Albarn is a rookie manager, and her first assignment is the up-and-coming band Death Scythe. Front-man Soul Evans immediately recognizes the name Albarn from the infamous Spirit Albarn, rock God extraordinaire. Neither Maka nor Soul are new to music, but they're both in strange territory. Soul wants to reach the top of a genre he wasn't born into, Maka's doing her best at doing her job to get them there, and they're both just trying to move on from the memories of their families.</p><p>[RESBANG 2014 | AU]</p>
            </blockquote>





	we're but peons in a circuit built by time to last

**Author's Note:**

> UM WOW! This was my longest fic ever and for the longest time I didn't think I could make it to the 10k minimum let alone 13k. ANYWAY I DON'T HAVE A LOT TO SAY HERE THAT I HAVEN'T SAID ON TUMBLR, ETC.! THANK YOU SO MUCH TO MY ARTIST KAITLIN MARLEY (I'll link her work here when she sends it to me!!!) AND TO ALL THE MODS AND EVERYONE WHO PARTICIPATED THIS YEAR!! I had so much fun and this is the most I've written in a looooong time, let alone being my longest fic.
> 
> [art link] CREDIT: Kaitlin Marley  
> THANK YOU TO MY LOVELY WONDERFUL ARTIST YET AGAIN FOR WORKING WITH ME AND BEING SO, SO PATIENT!!! I'm gonna go sleep for like ten years now and hopefully everyone enjoys this.

                “So, Soul.” Soul follows the movements of the interviewer as she crosses her legs then flicks his eyes up to catch her smile at him. “You’ve made quite a splash in the music scene this past year. A chart-topping album, a national tour, and three hit singles. What’s it feel like?”

                Soul exhales softly and smiles genuinely. “Great, honestly.”

                “I’m glad to hear that.” She plays with her nose ring and it starkly reminds Soul of Blake. “For myself as a fan and as a journalist for the industry, it’s been exciting to see your band rise to the top, especially so quickly. I think everyone’s wondering; how did that happen?”

                He licks his lips and throws his eyes over to the cameras, past them into the somewhat dim set behind them. Maka is standing by the refreshment table, slender hand wrapped around a plastic cup that she’s sipping from. Her eyes seem glazed, her face blank; Soul knows, however, that she’s paying close attention.

                “It’s a mix of things, really.” He replies, looking back at the interviewer. She shifts in her seat and smiles coyly. Her smile is that predatory smirk that seems to be in the genes of those who work in the media. Soul has become used to it over the past few months.

                “Oh, c’mon Soul! You can tell me, that’s what interviews are about right? You know I’ve got to throw you some hard hitting questions.” This time he smiles, the practiced one. For the cameras. It reminds him of sitting on a duet, a single spotlight on him, a hushed crowd straining to hear the notes floating from the guts of a baby grand. Different times, same smiles.

                “So really, what was it? Some sources attribute it to the addition of the Thompson sisters, while others cite your drummer’s stint, well, _stints_ in rehab as a definite improvement to your bass line sound.” Soul wants to grimace but he knows that it’d be caught on camera. The band had done their best to move past Blake’s drug addiction, and Soul holds no ill will towards his best friend. It was just a black mark on their record as a band.

                “Honestly?” He leans forward in his seat and scratches behind his ear, looking again past the cameras. She nods at him and toys again with the pink horseshoe in her septum.

                “I’m not gonna downplay my bandmates, I love them, they’re my family. And we’ve all improved. But I’d definitely have to say it’s thanks to our manager. You know, without her? I don’t think _Death Scythe_ would be what it is.” He grins sheepishly and sits back in his chair. “Hell, I don’t even think we would have released _Black Blood_.”

                “Really? Well let’s talk about that.” Soul tunes her out as he looks over at the refreshment table for a third time. Maka is staring at him now, eyes more alive, but still scrutinizing. Maybe angry? Wryly, he thinks, _With Maka, there’s no telling._

* * *

 

                The heavy sound of guitar fades out and the lead singer lets out a last, resounding breath into the mic. “That was “Never Sour” and we’re _Death Scythe_. Thank you.” The band on stage takes a short break to tune and launches into another song. Maka stirs her cocktail with the provided straw, eyeing the stage critically. They’ve got an okay sound. The lead singer has bleached white hair, slicked back; he pounds on the keyboard as he huffs ino the mic. Their guitarist is tall for a girl, an even in the lowlight Maka can see that she’s Asian. She croons out soft back up every one in a while, a surprisingly good contrast to the lead’s deep voice. The drummer is _wild_ to say the lead; Maka can’t even follow his movements. He’s got neon blue hair that seems to glow in the light. She wonders how it even stays standing in those all-over, gelled-up, punky spikes when he’s got to be sweating under the stage lights.

                “So, what do you think?” Kid takes a seat on the barstool next to her and lays his hand on top of the bar. He winces; Maka had also noted the inherent stickiness of the bar top, but it hadn’t mattered much to her. She shrugs and sips from her straw.

                “They’re okay.” Kid groans and stares at the stage for a few silent moments. Guitar and bar chatter fill the void.

                “Dad took them on. And he wants me to ‘groom them’ because I’m supposed to take over the label one day.” He rolls his eyes and picks at his lapel fussily. As always, Kid is well dressed; white button up, loose black sports jacket, well-fitting black slacks. Maka hides her smile against the rim of her glass. They’re in a bit of a dive bar, but of course Kid wouldn’t care.

                “I mean… they’ve definitely got a good sound.” She sets her drink back on the bar. “Not that I’m that musically inclined or anything. But I feel like something’s missing. Their stage presence is…”

                “Lacking, I know what you mean.” Kid rolls his shoulders and sighs before looking over at her. “Look, I hate to assign you to such a tough band, you know? I mean, for you it’s tough. You’re new at this.”

                Maka wrinkles up her nose in response to his statement. “I’m not all that new at it.”

                Kid laughs and looks back at the stage. “Being the kid of a rock God doesn’t count, Maka.”

                Even as she’s bristling in response, Maka mentally realizes she should have expected that. She plucks her straw from her glass and lets it drop onto the counter, then tosses back the rest of her drink. She comes back up with a gasp and sets the glass back onto the bar with a clink. Staring hard at Kid, she says “I’ve got this, alright?”

                He exhales, looking between her and the stage before settling on her. “Yeah. I know you do.”

* * *

 

                “Tonight’s show was awesome!” Blake crows before wrapping an arm around Soul’s shoulder, knocking his head into his best friend’s.

                “Yeah, yeah. Fuckin’ pack up your kit, would you?” Soul grumbles as he works on packing away their mics. Blake groans and walks off to start taking down his drums. Tsubaki had already put away her guitar and is currently helping Soul with the mics.

                “Sorry about that.” She rolls her eyes fondly in the direction of her boyfriend. Soul shrugs.

                “S’not a problem. You remember how we were in high school. Inseparable.” Soul smiles fondly at the memory. “Trust me, if Blake every really annoys me, I let him know with a good pummeling.”

                The guitarist huffs out a laugh and rolls her eyes. Soul rocks back on his heels, steadying himself against the stage with his left hand while he grips a spool of cords in his right hand. Tonight’s gig had been pretty decent. The crowd was at least moderately receptive, and everyone had stayed relatively together. Getting signed had really helped them out, though Soul was skeptical how a show at some dive bar they’d played in when they were still nobodies was going to help them out at all.

                At the sound of approaching footsteps, Soul looks up. God, she was cute, wasn’t she? Soul gapes at the blonde making her way backstage. She looks like the average patron of this type of bar, cutesy-punk with a soft face. She’s got a short, red-plaid skirt on, black band tee loosely tucked into the waist. It’s a bit too large, but works for the look she seems to be trying to achieve. Soul recognizes the shirt, too- that red hair and that grin are hard to miss. So she likes _Spirit_ , huh? A girl with taste.

                She pokes her head through the small gap in the curtains that Soul had been staring through and locks eyes with him. “You Soul?” She asks. As if impatient, she kicks the toe of her boot against the scuffed stage a few times.

                “Huh? Uh, yeah.” He licks his lips and grins up at her. “Who wants to know?”

                “Your new manager.” She gives him an unimpressed look and Soul wants to choke back his blatantly flirtatious tone.

                “Oh. _Oh._ I thought Kid said…?”

                “I don’t know what Kid told you.” She steps through the gap in the curtains, looks over the mess of cords on the floor between him and Tsubaki. Soul follows her eyes as she looks up to where Blake is dozing on his drum kit. He blanches and looks up at her.

                She sticks out her hand and he takes it, noticing what a strong grip she has. “I’m Maka Albarn. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

* * *

 

                “Nice set up.” Maka states blandly as she walks over the threshold of Blake’s parents’ garage.

                “I guess.” Soul shrugs but inwardly he wants to die. Yeah, okay, they’re a bunch of twenty-year-old nobodies living off their band and still practicing in one of their members’ garages. He already knows that and he doesn’t really need a reminder of it.

                Really, the space isn’t too bad. They’d covered the concrete floor in a dozen thrift store rugs, the faded designs totally not matching in any way and pockmarked here and there with a cigarette burn or an unmentionable stain. They’d pinned similar finds to the walls; thin blankets in a variety of patterns and colors. It did the trick, at least. There were a few posters mixed in, a half-decimated dart board right by the door that led to the backyard. They kept the main door closed most of the time, draped with two thick comforters that were drab and threadbare. Their equipment was hodgepodge all over the place, a mess of cords always tangled on the floor. In the corner by the door they had a desk set up with some mixing and recording equipment, and a mini fridge droned quietly underneath it. It was a sight, to be sure. An attractive one? Not so much. Soul regards it fondly, though.

                “Gets the job done.” Blake comments as he enters from the backyard. He gives Maka a suspicious look before sitting at his kit and leisurely tapping at his phone. Soul had called a meeting for the day and Blake still looks a little trashed from the past weekend of… partying. Yeah, that’s all that Soul can really call what Blake does.

                “Where’s Tsubaki?” Soul asks. Blake shrugs. “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean? You live with her. Literally, like, three houses down.”

                “Look I don’t know!” Blake crows, glaring at his best friend. They’re all on edge.

                Soul knows Maka is all business. He’d known since she’d told him her last name. Albarn, as in, the _legendary_ Spirit Albarn’s _only daughter_? Soul had gotten out the star-struck choking and fumbling the night before, but even still, he was intimidated, to say the least.

                Tsubaki waltzs in a few minutes later, juggling a few bags from McDonalds. “Sorry.” She says sheepishly. “I thought I’d grab us breakfast.”

                “Thanks Tsu.” Soul takes the bag she offers him and dug inside. Nice. Big breakfast with two hotcakes and two extra hash browns. “Geeze, you really know the way to a man’s heart.”

                Blake glares at him and takes a vicious bite out of his sausage biscuit. Tsubaki pulls out her own plate o hotcakes and sausage. “Through his arteries, yes.” She replies. Soul laughs around his fork, then looks over at Maka.

                “Oh, I didn’t know what you’d like so…” Tsubaki offers Maka a bag. Their manager raises an eyebrow before taking it, peeking inside. Both of her eyebrows shot up.

                “This has to be the entire breakfast menu.”

                “Except for the cinnamon melts.” Tsubaki says, twiddling her fingers. Soul is impressed with her initiative and kind of disappointed in himself for not showing the same kind of attitude. Maka fumbles with the bag and pulls out a hash brown and a sausage McGriddle.

                “Thanks.” She says quietly before setting the bag down and unwrapping her sandwich. Everyone digs into their food in silence for a few minutes. Blake’s on his third sausage biscuit before he bugs Tsubaki for a bite of her pancakes. Soul mock gags as she feeds him from her fork.

                “Get a room you guys.” He clears his throat and looks at Maka, who is picking at some oatmeal. “So…”

                She looks up at all of them then lets out a deep sigh. “As you all know, I’m your new- and first- manager. I asked Soul to call this meeting today so we can talk over some things in a casual setting.” Maka looks at Soul, then back at the group. Setting aside her oatmeal, she gives them a more pointed look.

                “To say the least, you guys are lacking. In a few areas, actually. The label and I agree that you could do with a bit of improvement and that’s where my job comes in. I’m not just here to schedule gigs and manage merch; in fact, while I will make sure those tasks get done by the right people, my main job is to get you guys to the top- or as close to it as possible.”

                “Lacking?” Blake cuts in, gaping at her. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

                She shifts and looks at him. “Your sound. It’s missing something. You’ve only got one guitarist right now, and we’ve already got someone- well, two someones- in mind for that, but also-”

                “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Kid never told me anything about adding new members.” Soul cuts in angrily.

                “Well, I’m telling you.” She replies simply.

                “That’s bullshit! We know each other, that’s where our energy comes from. You add someone, or whatever, _two_ someones and you’re just going to fuck with that!”

                Maka sighs and kneads at her forehead. “Look, I know these things hardly work, but we’re going to try it. What band hasn’t had a lineup change, right? Even-” She cuts off and Soul watches her gaze go stony. “You can bring up any complaints you have with Kid and the label. I’m just doing my job and I’m letting you know what’s going to happen. They’ll be here at your next practice, but we’ll set up a meeting before that.” Soul sighs and looks away from her, stabbing angrily at the pancakes on his flimsy plastic plate.

                Tsubaki peeps up then, quiet, confused; Soul can hear a bit of suppressed anger in there too. She keeps her calm too well. “So… are they just getting rid of me or something?”

                “Not at all!” Maka exclaims. “We just… we feel the sound would be better with some added bass. Look, I saw your show last night and I’ve heard your EP. You guys are really great for what you’ve been working with, and we just want to see you improve. And because I have had to do my research, I know Soul did the bass work on your EP, but you need someone who can deliver for live performances. Canned music just isn’t for the stage.” She cocks her head and rolls her shoulders. “Look, I don’t really want to be the bad guy here or anything. I’ll say again, you guys are already great from what I’ve seen, and the label really wants to take advantage of what you have to offer. You’re young, attractive, and talented. You’ve got a diverse line up, and your sound is, to be frank, in style right now. The label wants to capitalize on you as a band, but they don’t want to risk their deal with you by any means. So if you have any legitimate complaints or fears, let me know, and I can talk to Kid about them. But please at least give this meeting a try.”

                She reaches down and plucks a sausage McGriddle out of the McDonald’s bag on the floor. As she peels back the wrapper, she looks back up at them. “So?”

                Once again, Soul sighs. “So, when’s the meeting with these guitarists?”

                Maka smiles. “Thursday, at three. Dress nice and come by the office.”

* * *

 

                Long after Maka had left and they had jammed out their frustrations, Blake sits back from his kit and looks over at Soul. “Kinda cute, innit she?”

                Tsubaki slaps her boyfriend upside the back of his head. “ _Shit!_ Ow, Tsu!”

                “I guess.” Soul shrugs and tries not to give in to Blake’s wheedling too much. Figures his best friend would immediately pick up on his attraction to their manager. He sips idly at his can of coke and fiddles with the tracking on a song. The processor in the computer whirrs quietly.

                “Ohoho! The ‘I guess.’ _Classic_ , Evans. I’ve known you since middle school, remember?” Blake drapes himself over the back of the computer chair and ruffles Soul’s hair.

                Ugh, of course. “Quit it! Geeze, yeah, she’s cute, what of it?”

                “Well, you know…” He pulls back and even out of the corner of his eye Soul can see the lewd action Blake performs with his hips. He barely dodges Tsubaki throwing a drumstick at him.

                “Dude. She’s our manager.” Soul swivels around in his chair and deadpan his best friend. Regardless of the fact that he totally might be up for what Blake was suggesting, it’s unprofessional as hell.

                “So?! I’m bangin’ a bang member.” He throws his thumb over his shoulder and this time doesn’t dodge quickly enough.

                “Christ Tsubaki, leave some of his brains intact for drumming.”

                Blake sits on the floor and rubs his head. After throwing a surly expression at his girlfriend, he looks back at Soul. “So. Dude. Bro. Friend of mine. Besides how cute she is, she’s a bit of a bitch.”

                Soul rolls his shoulders and tries not to look guilty as he says, “I don’t really think so.”

                “What? Man, she comes in here and tells us what to do and tries to force new people into our group. We got a _dynamic_ goin’ here! If she fucks with that she fucks with our sound.” Tsubaki pokes her head up from behind the drummer, looking apprehensive.

                “I kind of have to agree, Soul.”

                “Ughhhh.” He rubs his hands over his face and turns back to the computer. “Will you just, like… Fuck, we’re going to give it a try okay? They’re industry professionals and we’re just, I don’t know, newbies or whatever.” His bandmates look skeptical; his heart pounds at his dishonesty. Tsubaki is the first to sigh in defeat.

                “Alright.” They echo each other and devolve into a mess of cutesy talk. Soul blanches and shoves his headphones on.

* * *

 

                Soul agonizes over the itchy sweater Tsubaki has stuffed him in. They have to dress nice; not too formal but not too laid back. Blake is complaining loudly about the lack of room in his pants and tugs angrily on the collar of his shirt. Soul shifts uneasily in his chair and looks in the mirror on the back of his door. He’s been squeezes into a form fitting grey V-neck and black jeans. Tsubaki had allowed him, gracefully, the small comfort of some of his nicer sneakers, one of the pairs he wore on stage. He toys idly with his headband.

                “God, Tsubaki, these are _killing_ my dick.”

                “If you don’t _shut up_ I’m going to cut your dick _off_ and then you’ll have nothing to complain about ever again.” Soul growls. Tsubaki is still in the bathroom, even after piddling around the vanity for a solid two hours already.

                “Tsuuuuu. Let’s go! We’re gonna be late.” Blake jumps up and pokes his head into the bathroom. Soul hears them squabble for a few minutes before Blake disappears into the doorway.

                “Don’t fuck in my bathroom!” He yells, legitimately worried. “You know how I am about your gross… _stuff._ ”

                Blake leans out of the doorway and waggles his eyebrows at his best friend. “You mean my-” He’s yanked back promptly by Tsubaki, the momentum pulling a startled choking noise from him. Soul stifles his laughter.

                Ten minutes later Blake manages to corral Tsubaki out of the bathroom. Soul whistles and smirks when Blake shoots him a dirty look. He leans back in his chair and surveys his friend. “Damn, Tsu. Why don’t you wear that at one of our shows? I bet we could get fans just from you.” He squawks as Blake lunges at him.

                Tsubaki had donned black sheer tights, high-waisted shorts and a personally crafted band tee. Soul remembers it- one of 250 they’d gotten awhile back. Tsubaki had taken a 1X and torn it to shreds for this look but he’d only seen her wear it twice at shows- and never with her current bottoms. She fiddles with her hair once more before turning to the both of them. “Blake, _please_ don’t mess up your clothes.” Soul feels immensely grateful; Blake pulls back from the headlock he’s got his best friend in and straightens up. The stabbing, pinprick glare is not missed, however.

                “Okay, are we ready? No need to do anymore cosmetic preparation?” Soul scowls at the two of them. Blake squirms on the spot uncomfortably; Soul has to admit, those jeans _do_ look particularly unforgiving. When no complaints arise, though, Soul ushers them all out of the house.

                The drive to the studio takes 45 minutes; in all honesty, ten minutes in a car with Blake was way too much for Soul’s mental and physical health. By the time they reach the studio, Soul wants to strangle his friend. Fortunately, his hands have been occupied with the wheel.

                “Hi, everyone. We’re going to be in conference room three.” Maka greets after they’ve been directed to the back by the receptionist. She’s dressed much more businesslike here; a close fitting black pencil skirt and a white button up, her hair pulled back in a high ponytail. Soul is immediately aware that rocking a hard on in these pants would be a death sentence by public humiliation. He makes a note to think very seriously about grandmas in underwear.

                They’re herded into the conference room where two young women are already waiting. The two of them are practically spitting images of one another: blonde and skinny, with the same eye color and fair complexion. There’s a noticeable age difference, however. The young has a short, choppy bob and a rounder face; the older, long straight locks and a narrow nose. Her eyes look… not unkind, but guarded. Soul sits across the table from her at the table. The door opens and closes and Kid takes a seat at the head of the table and folds his hands on the table.

                “Alright.” He says, then lets out a deep breath. “Let’s talk.”

* * *

 

                The two newest members of _Death Scythe_ are Liz and Patti Thompson. As Soul had already assumed, Liz was Patti’s senior by three years; Patti would now be the youngest of their ensemble, at just 19. They both play guitar, but Patti can “scream pretty damn good” according to Liz. Soul asserted that wasn’t in their sound but they would keep it in mind. Patti has been in a few music videos before but neither of them have played with a band before now. Through Kid, they had all agreed to start out in closed practices on their own terms, and when the band felt whole again (including their new additions), they’d have to come into the studio to be observed.

                “That sounded so skeevy.” Soul later remarks to Blake over the phone. He slouches along the aisles of Walmart, giving unimpressed looks to most items on the shelves.

                Blake laughs over the line. Soul can hear the dull thud of music in the background. Personally, Soul likes a quiet life. He puts on a persona for the stage; for the band. A dream day for Soul is to kick back at home on the weekends. He’d had enough parties in his youth back home. Blake was the partier of the band.

                “Dude I gotta go, Tsubaki is making me dance.” He hears a muffled shout in the background and yanks the phone away from his ear with a hiss. “Yeah, yeah!” Blake shouts, the line going dead soon after. Soul gives his phone a glare, as if the drummer could see it through the phone. He shoves it into his pocket and keeps picking over items on the shelves.

                He’s wary of adding new members to the band. It’s a make it or break it kind of situation. Some bands skyrocket into fame when they increased their numbers… others flopped completely. He doesn’t want _Death Scythe_ to fall into the latter group. It’s his baby. Well, his and Blake’s.

                Soul fondly remembers their first jam sessions, back in the days of high school. His voice was terrible and Blake just wanted to make noise. But they had worked at it, _fuck_ they’d worked for everything; every moment to get this far had been a struggle. It wasn’t the most lucrative of careers, to say the least. It started out as a hobby- childish, boyhood wishes come to messy fruition. Soul had once been a classical pianist, a prodigy at that. But he likes rock and pop and everything it was, the lifestyle, whether or not it came with any fame. He just wanted (still _wants_ ) to make his own music, and that desire didn’t just limit itself to twenty minute compositions to be played to a quiet audience. He wants to hear cheering, roaring, he wants to have that moment where he can give it over to the audience and listen as a couple hundred people sing the lyrics that _he_ had written, hum and chant the melodies he’d composed. Soul wants it all, not just for him, but for his bandmates too. That in mind, he’s got a mixed feeling in his gut about everything they’re doing, about everything that the label is doing.

                With a sigh, Soul moves away from the display of energy drinks he’d zoned out on and continues grocery shopping.

* * *

 

_Three Months Later_

                Soul eyes the crowd with trepidation. Liz, Patti, and Tsubaki are rocking from foot to foot, tuning at the last second. This is their first real gig since adding Liz and Patti. Soul recalls his nervousness from a few months ago, how he wasn’t sure of them. He lets the feeling fester, lets his fingers dance with anticipation over the tops of the keys as he helps them tune. He’s not sure he could picture the band without the two, now, but he’s still learning. They’re still growing on him.

                He pulls the mic in close by the stand and lets out a short huff of a breath. “We’re _Death Scythe_ and this is “Bad Girls Go Everywhere.”” He hears the three sharp cracks of the drum sticks before Blake storms into a pounding drum roll, Tsubaki and Patti thundering behind soon after with the riveting screech of electric guitar. The beat is messy and harsh but in a nice way: one that is _constructed_ to be a mess. Soul waits, digs his heel in on the one-two beat of the snare before the crescendo and belts into the first verse as Liz strums out her first bars.

                It was somehow easy to forget in just a few short month how exhilarating a show could be. Even when the lights are shining hot down on Soul, when he’s sweating through his deodorant, and when he’s biting back winces at mistakes he or someone else makes, it’s everything. It’s perfect.

                They end the show with a slow song, he and Tsubaki playing their respective instruments and crooning the lyrics to a duet they’d written in high school. It was her and Blake’s song, and Soul feels him watching from the wings. His throat has a break for a moment while Tsubaki sings, and he looks out over the crowd as his fingers continue to slowly fall over the keys. He loves the way it looks beyond the stage; interested listeners, quietly talking customers, the dim lighting that makes the room seem like a big black hole in comparison to the light-flooded stage. Soul looks past all the people and sees her sitting at the bar and watching them; she’s wearing one of her laid back outfits. He stares and nearly misses his cue to join back in on the vocals.

                After packing up and loading their gear into the van, the band cheers and heads back inside to have a few celebratory drinks. Soul slides onto the stool beside Maka, orders a beer, and looks over at her.

                “Very nice, Evans.” She looks over at him and smiles.

                So Soul may or may not have developed a horrible, untimely, terrible crush on his band’s manager. Yeah. He’s in deep. (It’s easy for him to tell because, when she smiles, the only feeling it reminds him of is in seventh grade when Kim Diehl dated him for like a week.) Maka doesn’t _technically_ have to be at their shows, but she says she likes it. Reminds her of better days, or something like that. She hadn’t offered much more than that and Soul’s not going to ask.

                “Yeah? I almost messed up on “Here In The Dark.” Too busy starin’ into the crowd.” He grins and swigs from his beer. She toys with the straw in her drink and looks out at the bar, not replying. Damn, openly flirtatious gets him nowhere then?

                “Patty and Liz are working out well.

                “Mmmmm.” Soul looks over his shoulder towards a corner of the room where the two girls are chatting with a table of very _interested_ looking guys. He’s become rather… protective.

                They turn back to the bar at the same time, locking gazes. Soul feels his face warm. Jesus, is he going through puberty again?

                “That last song was really nice.” Maka says, quietly. There’s another band on stage and he can barely hear her. “Who was it about?”

                Soul pauses, looks at his drunk, and thumbs at the label. It peels under the quickly growing condensation. “…Tsubaki.” He replies, looking up at her. She blinks, obviously confused, looking over to where the young woman is sitting with her boyfriend. “You and-?”

                “No! No, no, no, God.” He laughs and pushes his beer away. “Blake wrote it in high school, before they were together. He was infatuated, honestly. We uh, we played it at the junior year talent show and she heard it. They’ve been attached at the hip ever since.”

                “Well why doesn’t he sing it with her?” Beer almost goes up Soul’s nose he laughs so hard.

                “Blake can’t sing, Maka.”

                Her face goes funny and she quiets. “Still, that’s… nice.” She says. Soul can barely hear her, but he thinks she sounds sad. Nostalgic, maybe.

                “Hey.” He calls out over the music. “Dance with me.”

                She blinks at him and how had he never noticed how green her eyes were before this moment? “What?”

                “Dance with me.” He feels so brave, even when she gives him a suspicious look.

                “Why?”

                Soul laughs and shrugs. “It’s a bar and there’s music, why else?” Because she’s really hot and he wants to somehow end up pressed up against her because of the crowd around them.

                Maka looks between him and the mass of bodies in the bar then rolls her shoulders. As fluid as a cat, she slips from her barstool and begins to melt into the crowd “Alright.” The smile on her face has transformed from distant to minx-like.

                The band onstage is tuning now and the mass of bodies thins before them, sweaty teenagers certainly here with fake IDs heading to the bar for something to drink after thrashing their woes out. Music flairs up; they’ve vaulted into something loud, rowdy, and thrumming. Soul feels the bass in the soles of his shoes and the crowd bursts back into life around them.

                He’s never been great at dancing- okay, ballroom? Waltz? He can do that. But real, club-style dancing is not the forte of an English-born high society brat. Somehow, though, he’s still surprised when Maka actually _can_ dance- she swirls her hips in these just-so movements, almost like a come-hither motion done with just her hips; her torso undulates down with it and her feet do this weird little shuffle that honestly kind of looks like it would usually be characteristic of someone who _really_ needs to piss, but on her creates the whole full-body ripple of- Jesus, of something. She brushes her bangs back out of her face and the stage light catch the beading sweat on her forehead and Soul is really pissed about his tight pants because they feel damn oppressive right now. His hands find her hips under the now-flashing stage lights; bodies press in around them until everything is just noise, heat, movement. He loses himself in it.

* * *

 

                Sundays are Maka’s days off. She likes to relax, catch up on some reading, maybe some TV shows. It’s also a good day to recover if, like last night, she hit the bottle hard in an attempt to balance her career choice with her memories of life with her dad.

                When she slips into bed at 4 A.M., only managing to halfway shuck off her tight jeans before collapsing into the cold sheets, she still smells like Soul. Her sheets smell faintly of him in the morning, too. She kicks off her pants and hears them slither to the floor, then buries her face in her pillow. She had danced with him for a long time last night. If not for the alcohol, she might not have. Very rarely, though, does a gig _not_ happen at a bar, and what’s a show without liquor?

                Somehow, through the fog of her hangover, she remembers her dream from last night- or was it early morning? She was at one of her dad’s shows. He’d sat on a stool in the center of the stage, and Maka had looked around to find that all the faces of those in the crowd around her were blobby and unintelligible. She’d looked back up to the stage and her dad gave her that smile, the soft one she remembers from her baby pictures; the adoration of a father. But his face had morphed into something cat like, predatory, and she had tried to run away but the crowd was thick in all directions and she couldn’t make out spaces between the gray blobs of bodies.  He got huge, on the stage, swelling until he broke through the roof. And she woke up.

                With a groan she pulls the blankets over her head and sinks back into her pillows.

* * *

 

                Soul wakes up at five A.M. to his phone fucking _blaring_. He swats at it, ending the call before rolling back over.

                Thirty seconds later it starts ringing again.

                “Hello?” He grumbles into the mic. There’s a shuffling over the line, like papers, and heavy breathing.

                “Hey there. This is the Death City Police Department.” A gruff voice relays. Soul instantly sits up and throws off his blankets to stumble out of bed. “Is this, uh… Soul Evans?” He winces.

                “Yeah, speaking. What, uh, what’s this about?” He jams the phone between his shoulder and ear and pulls his pants up, already preparing himself for the worst. Jesus, what if something happened to Blake or Tsubaki? What if they… Okay, he can’t be jumping to conclusions.

                “We have a Mr. Blake Star down here at the precinct and, while we offered him a phone call, he is entirely too inebriated to make the call on his own. It took us awhile to get his emergency contacts in order.” Soul groans aloud.

                “What did he do?” He walks to his dresser and rummages around for a shirt then pulls it over his head with some difficulty.

                “Well, I just think you better get down here. And Mr. Evans?”

                “Yeah?”

                “I suggest you bring money for bail.” The line clicks off and Soul leans heavily on the dresser.

* * *

 

                Blake had been arrested at a busy intersection after several calls from harassed individuals claiming a “drunk punk with blue hair” had shouted obscenities at them before stumbling off. When Soul got to the precinct and was subsequently shown to Blake, the drummer was missing a shoe and his jacket. He had grinned and slurred at Soul.

                Soul bailed him out and Tsubaki had to get involved, though Blake wasn’t happy about that. She was scared when Soul called, and pissed when she showed up. They spent half the morning at the precinct, and by the time Soul gets home it’s ten A.M. He slumps out of his clothes that smell like vending machine coffee and the foreign cold-cleanliness of floor cleaner and gets into the shower.

                As he exits the shower in a waft of steam, wrapping a towel around his waist, his phone chimes from his bed. Leaning over, he sees a text from Maka.

 _From: Maka Albarn_  
2/24/13 - 10:27 AM  
I… had fun last night.

Soul leans back, rocking on his heels, puzzling at the text. Was his flirting getting him somewhere or was this just business? Or at least, he hoped, was it friendly conversation?

 _To: Maka Albarn_  
2/23/13 – 10:29 AM  
me too

 _From: Maka Albarn_  
2/24/13 - 10:31 AM  
That band that played was pretty cool too.

 _From: Maka Albarn_  
2/24/13 - 10:31 AM  
;P

                Jesus, she used smiley faces? He never would have expected such a thing from her. He pulls on boxers and sits on the edge of his bed, twiddling his thumbs.

 _To: Maka Albarn_  
2/24/13 - 10:34 AM  
can i ask you something?

 _From: Maka Albarn_  
2/24/13 - 10:35 AM  
Sure?

 _To: Maka Albarn_  
2/24/13 - 10:38 AM  
does the label have any rules against me asking you out?

 _From: Maka Albarn_  
2/24/13 - 10:45 AM  
…No.

 _To: Maka Albarn_  
2/24/13 - 10:47 AM  
and do you have any rules against me asking you out?

 _From: Maka Albarn_  
2/24/13 - 10:50 AM  
……No.

Soul smiles.

 _To: Maka Albarn_  
2/24/13 - 10:53 AM  
movie, tuesday, illl pick you up?

 _From: Maka Albarn_  
2/24/13 - 10:55 AM  
Okay…

He frowns, momentarily, but his phone chimes again.

 _From: Maka Albarn_  
2/24/13 - 10:55 AM  
I like scary movies and I expect Redvines and my own drink. :)

 _To: Maka Albarn_  
2/24/13 - 10:56 AM  
sure thing ;)

* * *

 

                Maka feels weird about the date, a muted excitement for sure. It goes down the drain Monday morning when the label has a serious meeting with the band about Blake’s behavior. They’ve been working up to announcing an album release, and Blake’s one night stint in the slammer is going to garner the band negative attention. The label is far from happy.

                “No band is any different.” Maka defends the band to Kid and his father, sitting across from her. She’s playing her part as manager, she’s sitting with the band, being their face so to speak. They are her responsibility, after all. “Everyone makes mistakes. Isn’t there a saying? Drugs are bad for you, but good for your music collection?” She tries to crack the joke, but no one is smiling and she reverses the wheels on that train of thought. “Look, this can be fixed.”

                Kid nods and leans over the table, sweeping his eyes across the band members and zeroing in on Blake. “Rehab.” He spits the word out, voice stern. “Three weeks. And this will be the last time this happens. And-” He holds up a hand at the noises of protest Blake is already voicing. “If you refuse, we drop you from the label immediately. We’ll still announce the album release as planned. But you need help.” He sits back and looks at them all again. “Are we clear?”

                Soul looks at his drummer, then at her guiltily. He hadn’t shared the news of Blake- even though he knew about it, the same morning that he asked her out. She feels hurt. He flicks his eyes away and speaks up. “I think we can manage that.”

                “Dude!”

                Soul looks over at Blake harshly. “Shut up. You got us into this mess, I don’t really think you have any room to argue.”

                “You can’t fucking send me anywhere against my will!”

                “So you’re gonna destroy the whole band over your fucking problem?” Their voices have amplified and Maka winces. “You’re gonna fuck up everything we’ve worked for, for so long, just so you can _drink and party_? Fuck you man.” Soul stands up, sending his chair skittering and screeching across the floor. He walks around the table and leaves with a slam of the door.

                “I’m sorry.” Tsubaki peeps, standing. “I’ll, just uh…” She points at the door and makes a much quieter exit.

                Maka looks at Blake. He looks shocked, angry. But also sad.

                “You know you have to do this, right?” She says, quietly. She doesn’t know what he’ll say, but she’s relieved when he shrugs and nods with a pathetic sigh.

                “Alright. For the band, I guess.”

* * *

 

                Soul pulls up in the parking lot of her apartment complex on a motorcycle. _A motorcycle_.

                He pulls off his helmet and hands her one, then looks at her outfit. “So uh, is that a skort, or do you just not give a shit?” He cracks a grin and she scowls.

                “Sorry that I didn’t know you were going to be driving… _this_.” She gestures at the bike using the helmet, then stares at aforementioned contraption in her hand.

                “Need help?” He holds out his hands and crooks his finger towards himself. She steps forward, and carefully jams the thing on her head. He reaches up and clips it under her chin, tightening and loosening the strap until she’s satisfied with it. He throws his thumb over his shoulder, and she eyes the seat with a bit of trepidation.

                “Don’t worry.” He smiles and she feels warm at it, which surprises her. Just, uh…” He points at his footrest. “Lift up on here and- oh, don’t touch that pipe with your leg, yeah uh- yeah and swing over with your other leg- steady on my back if you need- yep.” She wiggles on the seat behind him until they’re snug and now she doesn’t know what to do with her hands.

                “There’s a…” He snickers quietly. “There’s a sissy bar behind you, to hold onto, if you want.” She makes an irritated noise and reaches behind her, feeling a somewhat sturdy metal bar that she leans some of her weight against.

                “Comfortable?” He turns to look at her and she narrows her eyes.

                “Yes.” He grins and turns back around, gets settled, and soon they’re pulling out of the parking lot into the road, pavement lurching up to greet her. She swallows.

“Lean with me.” He calls over his shoulder, the bike rumbling beneath them. He straightens and her hands fly from the bar behind her to his hips. She grips onto the cool leather of his jacket and turns to look at the scenery fly past them.

                It’s a cool night, and when they pull into the movie theatre parking lot she’s just gotten used to riding. They leave their helmets on the bike and, just as she’d requested, he gets her a pack of Red Vines and a large soda to herself. They share a large popcorn, and make their way to theatre six for _It Came from the Crypt!_

                Maka gets to choose the seats so they pick ones in the middle in the very back. She watches as Soul mindlessly inhales popcorn while she chews on a Red Vine absentmindedly. The previews are still playing and Soul looks over at her.

                “So, uh.” He looks back at the screen and shovels more popcorn into his mouth.

                “So?” She says. He shrugs and looks back at her.

                “I’m not good at this.” She barks out a laugh.

                “At least you’re honest about it then.” She reaches over for some popcorn. It’s salty and warm on her tongue. Theatre popcorn is the best.

                The movie starts up and quiets their conversation. Maka chews on Red Vines and Soul keeps crunching popcorn beside her. Their hands meet in the bowl a few times, but it’s not as romantic as movies or books or anything Maka’s seen has told her it should be. He jumps at a few things and she giggles. They hold hands; his fingers have a thin film of butter on them.

                He drops her back off and they chat for a few minutes outside of her apartment. He doesn’t even get off the bike, just tips his head and hands her the spare helmet. Tells her to keep it “for future use” before grinning and blazing out of the parking lot.

                She stands there with it in her hands until his tail lights disappear.

* * *

 

                They announce the album the next week.

                Blake is already at a Rehabilitation center three hours away. Meanwhile, the rest of the band is hard at work in the studio nearly every day. Soul is up at all hours writing lyrics and recording small bits of sound at home, e-mailing his bandmates regularly, and there’s more than one walkout in the studio out of frustration. Blake returns and starts doing AA to facilitate his recovery; he’s grouchy and sleepy but having their drummer back on board solidifies the band.

                They start tracking in July, and Soul spends most of his day not talking just to preserve his voice for what seems like _thousands_ of recordings. They want everything to be perfect.

                The album drops on May 27th, and they all rest easy for about three whole days.

                “We’re _what?!_ ” Soul’s voice screeches up about ten octaves. Everyone around the table looks shocked and speechless.

                “We’ve booked you for Warped. It’s only a few stops but-”

                Soul doesn’t even let Kid finish, he turns and pulls Blake out of his chair and into the most ridiculous hug of his _life_. Tsubaki and Liz and Patti pile on and Soul thinks maybe he’s crying and that it’s definitely okay, and through a gap in the group he sees Maka smiling.

* * *

 

                Maka opens her door to Soul, rocking back and forth on his heels. He explodes through the door and wraps her up in a hug and she squeaks, taken aback. He’s speaking, words tumbling out of him at a thousand miles an hour. She extracts herself from his arms and closes the door, turns around and holds up a hand. He stutters to a stop and grins widely at her, so big it seems to split his face.

                “We did it!” He hisses, and she can see that this is truly _it_ for him. His passion makes her heart ache, the familiarity of it. She squashes the feeling down, along with the warmth she’s getting from his smile.

                “You did it.” She agrees, nodding. Maka shifts from foot to foot, tugging on the hem of her shirt. She’s in loungewear and her hair is messy.

                “I want to celebrate. I want to take you out.” He says. She scrunches up her face in surprise.

                “What? Shouldn’t you and the band-”

                “We’re going to be together on the road for like, two months. Let’s just- you and me. Tonight. Get dressed, I wanna take you somewhere nice.” He grabs her shoulders and he just looks _so_ excited she can’t bear to say no.

                “Okay. Just… give me a little while to get ready?”

                “Yeah, yeah, of course.” He seems to shake with excitement. “ _Fuck!_ ” He whoops. “We _did_ it!” She smiles at him again and leaves him in her living room while she goes to get ready.

                Soul drives them to an Italian restaurant on the other side of town, buys Maka some expensive seafood dish. He knows of course, that Warped is going to be expensive but he’s celebrating, dammit. He’ll do what he pleases, at least for tonight.

                “I’m really glad you’re our manager.” He pipes up while they wait on their entrees. He plays with his utensils and stares at her earnestly. They’ve only been on a few days but he really, _really_ likes her. There’s something about her that is so genuine. He wants… he wants.

                Maka blushes and scrapes her fork on her plate audibly. “Thanks.” She says quietly.

                “Is everything okay?”

                “Yeah, yeah, just- long day at work.” She grins at him and he returns the smile.

                He drops her back at home after dinner, kissing her slow and wet up against her apartment door and feels her sigh a little against him. All worries about her losing interest fly away as she pulls away from his mouth with a long suck on his bottom lip.

                “I’ll see you soon right?” He whispers against her lips.

                “Yeah.” She says back, her mouth full and pressed so close to him. “Soon.”

* * *

 

                They start prepping for tour in early June. It’s been constant practices for the past couple of months, and now they’ve got to get gear and equipment and a trailer and God knows what else to take a couple-month long trip across the country.

                Soul’s been on YouTube a lot, and the band’s Facebook and Twitter, eating up the praise and the excitement all the fans are expressing. It’s been a short time and their fan base has grown exponentially, he’s astounded. Every day he wakes up and has to spend a few minutes reveling that he gets to do something he loves.

                His relationship with Maka progresses, though it feels weird. Ever since the announcement for Warped, it’s like her mind has been in fifty places at once. He chalks it up to the preparation for tour.

                The night before they’re set to leave, he goes to her apartment.

                He’s had a lot of fuck ups in life- he wasn’t exactly a ladies man in high school, and he’s had tunnel vision for years with the band. But he likes her. God, does he like her.

                He’s watching her from the side of the couch, her feet in his lap and he realizes he really likes the way her nose scrunches when she laughs. She’s antsy and wiggles her toes sometimes, and sometimes she purposely pokes them into his ribs and he glares at her. It feels normal. Soul is so scared when she laughs, when she smiles. Every bit of happiness she exudes makes him nervous, makes his heart pound. He wants to say it, but he’s going on tour tomorrow, so he doesn’t dare.

                “Hey.” Soul startles, blushing when he sees Maka looking at him with raised brows.

                “Yeah?” He splutters a bit.

                “You’ve been staring at me for like, ten minutes.”

                “Yeah, well.” He shrugs and scratches his nose, looking to the TV as an escape. His face feels like it’s on fire already; it only goes up when he feels her feet slide out of his lap and her crawl up his lap.

                “Wow, okay, hiiimmmfff.” Soul cups her face in both hands as she kisses him. Her lips are salty from popcorn and Soul sucks the bottom one into his mouth. She makes a tiny, delighted noise.

                “What are you thinking about?” She gasps when she pulls back, and Soul holds onto her face, searching her eyes.

                “Honestly?”

                “Honestly.”

                “How great you’d look without my T-shirt on.” He swallows hard on the words. She grins and pulls back to shuck it off. Soul has to literally contain himself from making a noise; he feels like a truck; any noise like a puff of exhaust liable to scare her, the frail deer, away. Maka kisses him again.

                They end up in her bedroom, a line of clothing trailing from the living room and down the hall. When she doesn’t have it pulled back, her hair is so beautiful, spread out like sand-colored wisps on her pillow case. He thinks, maybe, her bra is on the back of the couch. She squirms in pink cotton undies under him when he presses his cold fingertips against her ribs, and laughs into the pillow. He presses wet, open-mouthed kisses to the center of her chest, sucks hickeys across her breasts, turns her laughter into a breathless noise.

                He gets her knees over his shoulders, panties falling over the edge of the mattress. She grins down at him, pupils blown, face alight. Soul thinks sex has never looked better on anyone. The sheets rustle under them, a sound Soul idly hopes he can recreate on a track. Their eyes stay locked as he trails his fingers up her torso, thumbs finding her nipples as he sucks her clit into his mouth. He smiles when she falls back into the sheets and buries her hands in his hair.

                Things Soul likes: Maka’s nails on his scalp. Maka’s thighs pressing hot around his face. Maka’s trembling, ecstatic cry of his name upon release. The way Maka Albarn tastes.

                Her thumb smears across his lips before they kiss, hands going back into his hair as their hips slot together. She’s not shy about licking into his mouth, making him breathless and heady and hot. Soul lets her roll them over, lets her roll against him and pull embarrassing, whining noises out of him. He digs his fingers into the spot behind her knee and she makes the most pleased, purring sound he’s ever heard.

                She fumbles in the nightstand while he struggles to push his boxers down with her still in his lap. Maka laughs, wiggling her ass and he playfully smacks her thigh. He’s embarrassed when she takes care of putting the condom on, her hands delicate but so, so hot when she strokes upwards after rolling it on.

                They twist in the sheets, sweaty, loud; fast. He has to hold himself back from saying so many things, bites and sucks on her neck and huffs out hot breaths against her collarbone when she drags her fingers through his hair. She comments on the roughness of his fingers when he grips her hips, a tiny breathless voice in the air and she quivers inside and Soul comes with a choked cry against her neck.

                She finishes herself off on his over-sensitive dick and he breathes hard and hoarse into the sheets afterwards as she cleans up and curls back up with him. He pulls her close, kisses her, and tries not to think too hard when he stares down into her sleepy, sated green eyes. She blinks and yawns and falls asleep while he’s playing with her hair, and he can’t help but feel that he’s lucky not just for having the band, but for having her, too.

* * *

 

                Maka rolls over in bed, expecting the warm comfort of another body but instead finding a mess of sheets and an empty pillow. She sits up, clutching the sheet to her chest and smoothing her hair back from her head. The bedroom door is cracked and the hallway light is on.

                She gets up and pulls her robe off of the hook on the closet door, wrapping it around herself before leaving the room. Down the hall, _the_ door was slightly ajar, shedding dim blue morning light over the floorboards. She marches down the hall with an inspired quickness she’d not experienced in the morning before this point in the entirety of her life.

                He’s standing in his boxers in front of the leftmost trophy case, mouth agape. For a moment, she has to appreciate how attractive he looks, even when he must have woken up not too long ago; sleep mussed hair, sleepy eyes (though weren’t they always?) and the gentle curve and slouch of his back make for an appealing picture. She’s too angry to appreciate it for long, though.

                “What are you doing in here?” Maka snaps.

                Soul startles and turns to look at her a bit sheepishly. “Sorry, I got up to go to the bathroom, but I was half asleep and I… ended up here. Wow, though, this room is-”

                “Off. Limits.” She growls. “So get out of here, now.” Soul blinks at her and straightens up.

                “I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

                “You didn’t know. I don’t care. Just… please get out.” She steps back and gestures into the hall. He steps over to her and carefully, softly closes the door behind him. She stares down at the floor, their bodies close; she scrunches up her toes idly, finding nothing to say to him in that moment in the span of silence stretching onward, longer and longer, between them.

                “Do you want me to go?” She shrugs and looks up at him.

                “Do you want to go?” She asks. He cracks a smile and leans down, whispering against her lips. “Never.” He tilts up her chin just that much and kisses her.

                The impact of his words was monumental on her. He couldn’t know; wouldn’t, until she really explained why that room was off limits and why never was a promise she didn’t believe. Especially because he’s leaving this afternoon, for two long months. In the moment, though, with his lips pressed against her and his hands curling into the robe at her hips, it resonates within her. He makes a sort of chuckle when his fingers trailed the spot on her hips where there should have been a panty line, but wasn’t one. She stood on tip toe to follow his mouth as he pulled back and he tugged playfully at the hem of her robe. Courage was becoming on him.

                She makes a motion to pull it off and he steps back. “Maybe we should talk, instead of…” He grins and a blush graces his cheeks. _Christ, he’s adorable._ But Maka doesn’t like the way he phrased it.

                “Talk? About?” She steps back from him and swallows. This is it right? There will be so many girls at all the shows. It’s okay. She can accept heartbreak now sooner than later.

                “Just um.” He glances back at the room. “Yanno, I followed his career a lot. I kind of admired him, musically, but I know he’s not the best guy. So, we don’t have to, but I understand okay? And uhh… you know. I’m leaving today and-”

                She hugs him, stands on her tips toes to do it and buries her face in his chest. “Okay.” She whispers, lets herself selfishly hold onto whatever they have.

                His arms slowly wrap around her and she feels the movement of his mouth as he smiles into her hair and says “Okay.”

* * *

 

                The long black expanse of the road stretches out in front of the van. There were few cars at this time of night, but Soul finds the broken snake-like train of taillights in the night soothing. No one was around; it was just the road. He used to feel like this on his bike back in college, before the band got really serious, when he’d pack up and leave out of town for the weekend and nothing but the hot sunbaked desert road stretched before him.

                Blake snores loudly from the back and he hears Liz mutter something angrily under her breath, not for the first time. Blankets rustle loudly in the quiet of the van and Soul quietly wishes he could join. Instead he pulles off on an exit and leaves his bandmates to sleep in the van while he takes a quick piss at a McDonalds and grabs a cheeseburger. They don’t have much time to waste, however, so he munches on his McDouble as he pulls back onto the interstate.

                It’s still hitting him. They’re playing Warped. Okay, whatever, it’s only a few stops on Warped, but holy _shit!_ This is big time. This is _the_ big time. They’ll be sleeping in this cramped van for a few months and taking weird, discreet sponge baths and living off of fast food but God be damned if it wasn’t worth it. They’ll get so many fans. They’ll be able to network with other, _cooler_ bands. He notices belatedly that his hands are shaking.

                His phone buzzes in the cup holder and he fumbles for it, swiping to answer and raising it to his ear. “Hello?” His voice is hushed.

                “Hey.” Maka’s voice is tinny over the speaker. He feels like he warms up all over.

                “Hey.” He says back, feels stupid for it and clears his throat. “How’s it goin’?”

                “Good.” She says. “Are you driving?”

                “Yeah. My shift. Everyone else is sleeping.”

                “Gee, how kind of them.” She laughs. There’s a quiet moment over the line, where they both just breathe. She makes a noise, distant, thoughtful.

                “Maybe I’ll come to a show.” Soul grips the steering wheel, swallowing hard.

                “Yeah? I mean, you don’t have to. But uh, it’s probably part of your job, right?”

                “Yeah. My job.” There’s a sudden shuffling and she speaks up again. “I should probably let you get back to driving, it’s not good to be on the phone while you are. So, good bye.”

                “Wait, Maka-”

                “Huh?” She hums, and it sounds sleepy. Soul suddenly feels something, tight, warm- weird. It feels like when he plays piano, all alone. It feels like playing for a thousand quiet people in a big, empty room. It feels like the breathless end of a macabre operetta. It feels…

                “I miss you.” He mumbles.

                Maka snores into the receiver.

* * *

 

                They start out in California, a show in Pomona where the crowd is large because hey, California is a huge fucking state and close enough to where they live that they’ve built up a veritable fanbase. It feels so electric and the whole band sleeps like babies that night.

                Warped goes through Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, all the way over to Georgia. Blake is their designated driver (something Soul drunkenly, for an hour, tells him he’s so, _so_ proud of him for) when they go out to celebrate. They play in Orlando, Florida and Virginia Beach, Virginia. Soul feels nervous every time, just like when he was a kid; except now instead of a silent crowd waiting for him to walk on stage and play a memorized 13-page concerto, it’s a loud crowd of a few hundred jumping up and down and screaming when the _band_ comes on stage. They play some old songs and half of the new album at nearly every show.

                Then they hit Chicago. They’re halfway through “Far Away, Love” when he sees her in the crowd and his heart does a weird thing, and the sun is bright and she’s just watching. It’s one of their slower songs so people are swaying but she’s looking at him, and he’s looking at her, and he knows she can see him. He wants to scream because he hasn’t seen her in over a month and they haven’t talked in three days. He tries to look away, afraid he’ll fumble too much, mess up too noticeably, but he can’t.

                When the set is over and they’re packing up, she comes back stage and makes the rounds, congratulating everyone, chatting, talks to Kid on the phone and he _burns_ because she hasn’t said so much as hello. That is, until he’s got cords wrapped around both hands and can’t hug her, can’t even fucking kiss her and he knows; he’s known since before they left that he was falling for her, but he feels so giddy with it and dumb. She smiles at him, says hi. He drops the cords and stands up and kisses her. Blake faux-giggles and Soul punches him for it later. Everything feels so much better, now. He feels like he can breathe.

                “Was it good, did we do good?” He says, breathlessly, when he pulls away.

                She nods, his hands moving with her head and he laughs. “Yeah. You guys did great.” And she kisses him again, softly, and he feels complete.

* * *

 

                They get back into Nevada on a drizzly day in the middle of August. Soul has a pile of mail the size of a small child on the mat just inside his door, and he sorts through it at the kitchen table. His keyboards and mics are on the floor in the hallway, dripping onto the floor, and he sees Tsubaki’s headlights flare across his den through the blinds as she pulls out of his driveway.

                He’d already made arrangements for his bills before he left, but he sorts away the statements and tosses the three-week-old coupons for the grocery store. There’s congratulatory letters from friends, a few letters asking for interviews, and at the bottom of the file, a crème-colored envelope with a gold wax seal, an ornate E pressed into the wax.

                Soul sits at the table for a long time, the house still dark around him aside from the dimmed, cheap chandelier over his dining room table. The rain grows louder on the roof, pounding until it sounds like white noise. He opens the envelope carefully, the wax peeling back and crumbling under his fingers.

                _Soul,_

_Your brother recently sent us a letter. He has been good. Although, I suppose you would know that. You do keep in touch with him, but that’s rather alright, I know you’re busy. Your father and I do wish you would visit. You and Wes have been abroad so long, I can’t imagine what is so good about America that you’d wish to stay there for so long. Wes said something about a band but your father and I simply laughed at that; we know you’d never do something like that. You stopped playing so young, when you went with Wes to America. We do regret it for you, you were so talented, nearly as much as your brother was at that age. We are just mailing to check in on you. I know you won’t write back and we’ll have to hear it from Wes, but let him know, alright? Tell him to stop with the little childish lies, as well, let us know what you’re really up to these days._

_All my Love,  
Mum_

                The delicate stationery crinkles audibly under his fingers. He squeezes his eyes shut and lets the sound of the rain mask the wet sound of water hitting paper.

* * *

 

                Soul knocks on her door at 1 a.m., the look on his face part fury and part raging sadness; she’s unsure how she knows exactly, but it feels familiar. He soaked in rain, his jacket dripping onto the mat in front of her door that reads “Wipe your paws!” and he’s holding his helmet in his right hand, knuckles white. She lets him in.

                Maka makes tea while he takes a shower. She doesn’t ask a lot of questions, just feels a little numb, a little grateful at seeing him after so long. She hasn’t seen him since Chicago and she hates to admit it, hates how it makes her feel but she _missed_ him. Her eyes glaze as she zones out into her thoughts, watching the steam rise in little puffs from the kettle.

                A hand reaches around her and moves the whistling kettle to another burner, then flips the burner off. Maka turns and blinks at Soul then smiles a bit. “Hi.” She says quietly.

                “Hi.” He says back, taking one of the mugs from the dish drain and pouring tea into it. She watches his movements, as he reaches for two Splenda packets and pours them in, stirs idly. His hand falls from the spoon and he holds himself up against the counter and glares at the cabinet. She presses her hand against his shoulder and he flinches violently, letting out a sharp inhale and looking over at her.

                “Are you okay?” She asks, eyebrows pulling in. Maka follows the line of his throat, the way his Adam apple bobs as he swallows. He shakes his head and leans in to her, stooping and wrapping his arms around her and she blinks at the wall paper and pretends her shirt doesn’t feel wet. She’s always been good at pretending that everything is okay.

* * *

 

                Soul wakes up and stares at the popcorn ceiling above Maka’s bed. Maka’s starfished out on the bed, snoring idly. He shoves last night into the back of his mind and turns to her, kissing her neck softly until she awakes with a soft noise.

                “Good morning.” She hums, tilting her neck to him. He smiles and presses his face there, kissing from time to time but mostly enjoying this time with her.

                “I missed you.” He says.

                “Mm.” She replies, in what he hopes is agreement. “Wanna tell me what happened last night?”

                “Not really.” He mumbles stubbornly against her skin.

                “Hey.” She pulls back, considers him for a moment and presses his bedhead away from his forehead. Her eyes search his face and settle on his own. “You came here at like dark o’thirty last night, and I guess I expected… after two months away…” She sighs and cups his face, leaning close to him. “You were so upset.” She whispers against his mouth.

                Soul frowns, upset that his usual attempts at not thinking about his parents have been thwarted. “I just got this dumb letter from my ‘rents. It was really…” He trails off, eyes blank as he stares over the top of her head. He thinks of so many ways he could start this conversation but swallows almost all of them, until finally he says “I’m just so over them. Or, I thought I was. My brother, he… he told them. About the band. And they didn’t even take it seriously. But we just… we _just_ …” He curls his fingers into the back of her shirt tightly. “We just went on tour, so it doesn’t fucking matter. But I let them get to me, again.” He pulls back and looks at her. “But it’s not like all the other times, I don’t think. Usually I can’t even talk about them but… I feel better about it this time. Like at least I realized…” He glances around her room, searching for the words. “Like I realized, I just did this great thing so why does it matter? Even if I’m… not over them. If that makes sense.” He realizes he’s been rambling and drops his head to the pillow, burying his face into it.

                Maka is quiet for so long that he has to turn to peek out at her. She’s looking at him thoughtfully, and when their eyes meet she blushes and looks away, but he sees the corners of her mouth quirk up. “Yeah.” She says. He flushes and smiles at her.

                “Yeah?”

                “Yeah!” She replies, rolling over onto him and making him laugh. For once, it’s not hard to forget about his parents.

* * *

 

                The day has been so good. It’s been a little emotional on Soul’s part, of course, but good. Maka has been able to stow away her feelings and not really have to analyze them. Well, until dinner.

                She’s putting away the food and Soul is leaning against the counter, trying to balance a spoon on his nose. He’s failing miserably and she’s laughing and he says it. He sounds so honest and genuine when he says it, standing by the sink and holding her cheap cutlery from the Family Dollar and looking her right in the eyes while she’s holding her shitty lasagna. He says “I love you.”

                “No you don’t.” She says quietly, staring at him. She’s got the semi-warm glass pan still in her hands and the fridge is ajar but she can’t focus on anything but his face, the way it turns so quickly from this warm ecstasy to confusion.

                “What?”

                “You heard me, Soul. You don’t love me.” And seeing his face becomes too much, so she turns and shoves the lasagna into the fridge, knocking bottles of ranch and ketchup and other dressings askew. She closes the door and holds onto the handle to anchor herself. She hears the spoon clatter in the drain and he steps over to her.

                “If this is about the tour and… your dad…” She whirls around to face him, her face tight with anger. (Suddenly, it hits her, why his face last night was so familiar: she remembers herself, in the mirror, every time her mom cried or a postcard from her dad came in the mail.)

                “Shut up.” She hisses.

                “I’m just saying, I know what it’s like-”

                “You don’t know _shit_ Soul.” The anger in her voice shocks them both into silence for a moment and Soul looks at her, face torn up. His eyes look sad and she can’t stand it, looking away and laughing bitterly.

“He left us!” She bursts, finally, eyes stinging with unshed tears. “He left us when he got signed, when the group got signed, because he had _made it_ and he went on his big, stupid fucking tour and he _left us_.” She slams her palm against Soul’s chest and he gapes at her, stumbling back.

                “Maka, I-”

                “And you wanna know what he did? It was all over the internet, all over the magazines that _Spirit Albarn loved his groupies!_ Fucked a new girl at every- at every show.” She hiccups over the words and whirls around, covering her face. “My mom had to see that, all the time, everywhere. She got calls and e-mails, asking her how she felt about her husband’s wild life! And she had to play it off, all the time. We couldn’t, _God Soul_ , we couldn’t go the grocery store without the whispers, the _looks_. The laughter.” She covers her mouth with a shaking hand and lets out a pained noise. “You have… _no_ idea what it was like, and I’m sick of you butting into it. All men are the same.” She spits, glaring over her shoulder at him. Part of her _feels_ his fallen, sad expression right to her gut. But a bigger part of her wants to save herself from more pain. She knows the words she flings are meaningless; she doesn’t believe it herself, half the time. But it’s so easy to lash out and _hurt_ if it means _defense_ ; if it means _safety._

                “So yeah, that’s why I know you don’t love me.” She looks away from him and balls her hands up at her sides. The room is quiet again and she hears him shift behind her. His hand touches her shoulder and she whips away from him, turning to face him and all the anger boils over.

                “GET OUT!”

                “What?!”

                “You heard me! Get out, get out, get out out out _OUT!_ ” She shoos him out of the apartment, his face scared and she’s out of breath and angry and he’s on the door step. She picks his helmet off the end table by the door and shoves it into his arms, then pushes her hair out of her face almost violently.

                “I’m still your manager.” She says lowly, anger in her voice. “But I am _not_ your girlfriend anymore.” And she slams the door in his face.

* * *

 

                The weeks fall away quietly now. He tries to text her, to call her. She never lets him into her office at work unless someone else is there with him, and he doesn’t want to talk about it with someone else around, especially one of his bandmates. Her eyes always rush over him, she barely speaks to him in meetings. Soul feels like he’s experiencing whiplash of the emotional degree.

                Kid throws them together for an interview, finally. Even on a four hour long flight, even when she’s driving the rental car from the airport to the hotel, even in the damn elevator up to their floor, she doesn’t say more than one word to him.

                Soul wonders how he’s going to survive the weekend.

* * *

 

                Maka swirls coffee in her disposable cup, looking up from it when the interview is over. Soul and the interviewer chat for a few minutes after the camera stops rolling and he shakes her hand. She tries to look like she hasn’t been staring when he gets up and walks her way, but it’s too late.

                “Hey.” He says, goes to the table next to her and picks up a doughnut with a napkin. She swallows, hard.

                “Hi.” She replies.

                “So she speaks!” He looks over at her, eyes mischievous. Hopeful, though, underneath that- she can still read him.

                “Yep.” She shrugs and offers him a smile.

                He toys with the napkin under his doughnut, grimacing while he peels it back from the sticky glaze. “So, how’d I do coach?” His voice is delicate, as if he’s still testing the waters.

                “Good job handling the Blake thing.” She comments. Soul tears a piece of the doughnut off and eats it, and she’s reminded of coffee and bagels during label meetings, of a greasy McDonald’s breakfast with his bandmates. She swallows hard.

                “Yeah.” He sucks some glaze off of his thumb and flicks his eyes up at her and Maka feels a swirl of emotions so heady it makes her nauseous.

                “Did you mean it?” The crew is breaking down the cameras, but slowly. Maka tunes out the noise.

                “That he’s my best friend and we got over it as a band? Of course.” His eyes meet hers: a challenge. She supposes he deserves that much; her saying it out loud.

                “No… What you said about me.”

                “Now or then?” He turns away now and drops his sticky napkin in the trash, obscuring his face. It makes her antsy. She sips from her coffee, wincing when she realizes it’s gone cold.

                “Both, I guess.” She says quietly.

                “Yeah.” He looks over at her and their eyes lock. Her hands tremble around her cup. “Yeah.”

                Maka lets herself smile. “Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Song titles are random lyrics from real world songs.  
> 2) The title is from "Tree Village" by Dance Gavin Dance.  
> 3) Let's pretend that in this AU, Warped Tour happens at a time that doesn't mess with the continuity of my story.  
> 4) I DON'T KNOW HOW RECORD LABELS WORK IF YOU HAVE ANYTHING TO SAY ABOUT IT FEEL FREE!!!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading I hope you enjoyed let me know if not also let me know.


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